


West End Story

by phia_nix



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Awkwardness galore, Crime Plot, Drug Use, F/M, Fluff, Illness, Kidnapping, M/M, Overdose, Post-Lethal White, Robin's second housewarming, Slow Burn, detective fiction is hard, post LW, time to introduce a gay character who's not a gross stereotype
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-04 00:25:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16336235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phia_nix/pseuds/phia_nix
Summary: When Robin's new flatmate comes to her for help finding a missing actor, she and Strike are drawn into the cutthroat backstage world of London's West End.This story picks up just over a week afterLethal Whiteleft off. Expect intrigue, a sudden increase in character diversity, pining, angst, me blatantly exploiting my theatre background, and the slowest of burns.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike attends a second housewarming for Robin, and enjoys this one much more. We meet her new flatmate, Rowan.

_I saw't not, thought it not, it harm'd not me:_  
_I slept the next night well, was free and merry._

**\- Othello, _Othello,_ Act 3, Scene 3 **

 

When Robin opened the door, the first thing that Strike registered was that she had been crying. She was never a graceful crier – her eyes swelled up, red and puffy, and her breath came in snotty sniffles (this was in contrast to Charlotte, whose tears had always been calculated, weaponised, and left her looking no less devastatingly beautiful). The second thing he registered was that her mouth was popping open in shock to see him there.

‘Cormoran? B-but – you’re early!’

Totally thrown, Strike glanced at his watch. ‘You said six?’

‘I said six, thinking that you’re always late, so you’d probably show up at six-thirty, which was when I told the others to arrive, and now you’re here at – five fifty-five!’

The moment stretched, her managing to glare, smile, and sniffle all at once, him feeling at an utter loss for what to say. ‘Er – Robin, are you all right?’

Her eyes widened in sudden embarrassment, and she turned away, blinking frantically and wiping tears away with the sleeve of her floaty blue blouse. Suddenly gripped with consternation, Strike stepped through the doorway and reached an arm towards her. ‘Is it Matthew? Has he been haranguing you over the phone again? I swear, I’ll tell that tosser where he can – ’

‘Cormoran, no, I’m – look, you big oaf, I’ve been in the kitchen cutting up onions!’ She was laughing properly now, and he realised that he had taken her elbow with his right hand. Her fingers – slender, pale, tipped with delicately lilac-coloured nails – were near enough to his face that he could suddenly smell the raw onion on them. He released her arm as quickly as he’d gripped it, and tried to salvage the moment by thrusting the bottle of champagne he’d brought at her.

‘Well – you’re meant to give crying women alcohol, right? Even if it’s just onion tears? Happy housewarming, Robin.’

She grinned at the label – he’d brought her Blanc de Blancs.

Her new flat was somehow both more modern and more homey than her old one on Albury Street. He vaguely thought that the label “open-plan” might apply here – the big central space of the flat encompassed a lounge area as well as a dining table and chairs, and was separated from the kitchen space only by an island counter topped by black granite. Strike noted the sleek-looking projector affixed to a bracket on the ceiling, pointed at a white wall which had been left pointedly bare of décor. No TV needed here, then; the large windows at the end of the room, however, were partly shrouded by heavy black curtains, which he surmised were necessary to create the home cinema conditions. Beyond the curtains, he thought he could see sliding doors and a tiny balcony, and fixed it in his mind for when would inevitably want a smoke later. There were a number of other doors leading from this central space; from one of them, there issued the soft sound of shower water.

Robin had crossed back to the kitchen, where a couple of pans and pots were bubbling and spitting away. She turned to the hob to continue tossing onions and spices, and Strike was glad of the excuse to avoid her still-puffy eyes. He cast around for something to do.

‘Mind if I put my beer in the fridge? And, look, tell me where to find the glasses and I’ll pour you some bubbles, if you want them?’ She answered in the affirmative, and after a moment’s hesitation – new kitchen – pointed out the appropriate cupboard. He fetched down a few champagne flutes and poured one full for her, making sure to hold the glass at an angle to avoid overflow. She took it with murmured thanks, and clinked it against his still-warm bottle of Doom Bar. After a moment’s thought, Strike shoved it into the freezer, in the hope that it would reach a reasonable temperature before the other guests arrived.

The half hour passed companionably. They swapped new theories on cases as Robin finished up with the cooking, and Strike automatically moved to start washing up the pots and pans. The food plated, Robin ducked into the bathroom to touch up her makeup – smeared somewhat thanks to the onion – and Strike took the opportunity to slip out for a cigarette. The balcony was north-facing, and he leaned on the left-side railing and admired the rippled pink clouds as he smoked. The sliding door opened behind him, and Robin leaned through it to inform him that his beer was adequately chilled. ‘Oh, gorgeous sunset tonight – though really, every sunset is beautiful in this city. There have to be some perks to living with London’s air pollution, right?’ He agreed, and turned to follow her back into the living area.

Strike registered faintly that the sounds of the shower had abated, and presently a man emerged from the master bedroom, dark hair still damp, doing up the final buttons of his teal shirt. He was slim and fit, about Robin’s height, with a face that was charmingly expressive if not classically handsome. He moved towards Strike with his hand outstretched.

‘Rowan Abbasi,’ he introduced himself with an easy, lopsided smile. ‘Good to meet the legend, after a week of hearsay!’

Robin rolled smiling eyes and punched him lightly on the arm. Strike was surprised to see such easy camaraderie between them after only a week of living together; as if reading his mind, Robin explained, ‘Rowan’s been working from home for the last week, so we’ve had dinner together most nights. Tonight is virtually the first time I’ve had the run of the kitchen – I’m usually just perched at the counter with a glass of wine, helping him run lines while he cooks. It makes a nice change…’ She trailed off, and Strike guessed – accurately – that Matthew had harboured certain unspoken expectations of who should be doing the cooking in their marriage.

‘Well, don’t get too used to it,’ Rowan teased, ‘I’ll be back in rehearsals soon enough, and then it’ll be anyone’s guess when we’ll see each other.’ He scooped up the flute of champagne Robin had just passed him, and raised it in a toast to her and Strike. ‘Here’s to acting and private investigation – we went in expecting glamour, and found only lives of drudgery!’

‘Speak for yourself,’ came Robin’s retort, ‘I happen to like the drudgery!’

‘And I wouldn’t know what to do with glamour if it bit me on the nose,’ Strike added.

The buzzer’s tone presaged Ilsa and Nick’s arrival, and Rowan excused himself to let them in. In a kitchen that seemed suddenly much emptier without the actor’s presence, Strike found himself clearing his throat and searching for small talk. ‘Seems like a pretty ideal flatmate, then?’

Robin smiled, hands busy with collecting cutlery from a drawer. ‘He’s great. Something about him reminds me of Martin, actually… though they’re very different people, obviously.’ Strike considered, and decided he could see the similarities in the two men’s manners. A tenseness in his chest, of which he hadn’t even been aware, suddenly eased; after all her experiences with the worst specimens of the male species, he was glad that Robin now found herself living with a man who felt like a brother to her. He made a mental note to thank Ilsa again for putting them in contact, and then the woman herself was breezing into the flat, Nick in tow.

‘Robin, Rowan, how are you? The flat’s looking so lovely! Hello to you too, Corm,’ she added, planting a kiss on his cheek and then continuing on to the hostess, enquiring about whether she’d managed to repair the vase they’d chipped during the move. Strike felt a slight flare of envy that Ilsa and Nick had been the ones to help Robin move her things into the flat and turn it into her home, while he’d been busy shadowing a client’s latest errant boyfriend. _Fat lot of use you’d have been anyway, with your one-and-a-half legs and total lack of interior design skills._ Not that Robin needed any decorating advice – she’d managed to turn their office from shabby to quietly tasteful, so that Strike always felt her presence there now, whether she was in or not.

Nick clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder as a greeting, and Robin came over to take the wine he proffered, leaving Rowan and Ilsa to finish up the final stages of setting the table.

‘Robin, Oggy – all right, you two? This is a cosy little gathering!’

‘Mmm, and Vanessa’s coming too, so we’ll have a full table – I don’t think it’d seat more than six, realistically.’

‘She’s not bringing Oliver, then?’ Strike remembered the lanky forensic pathologist, with his disapproving manner, and felt that he would put a certain damper on what would otherwise be very congenial company.

‘No, that finished a couple of weeks ago. Actually, I gather there’s already somebody new on the scene… But that’s too new for a group dinner party invite, I’m afraid. Oh, there’s the buzzer again, that must be her.’

Strike had been right: the combination of dinner companions made for excellent conversation, and after they’d finished the delicious food, the group drifted over to continue chatting from the comfort of the lounge area (Strike noticed, with a certain amount of resigned jealousy, that the sofa accepted his bulk without so much as a whisper, let alone a fart). He tuned back in to the conversation just in time to catch the end of Vanessa’s story: ‘You’d think that she’d have remembered the name of the officer who put her abusive husband in handcuffs, but nope! A card turns up at the station a week later, addressed to “Sergeant Detective Ikea”…’

Robin’s peal of laughter – was she tipsy? – drew his gaze to where she sat, curled up cat-like on a leather armchair mere feet away from him. ‘That’s as bad as some of the names on the mail for Cormoran – I’ve started keeping a record of the particularly outstanding ones! “Cumberbatch Strick” is my favourite so far.’

Rowan chimed in. ‘You could always just bite the bullet and change your name to Cameron? That’s what I did – got sick of white people stumbling over “Roshan”, and having it misspelt on the playbills.’

‘But you kept Abbasi?’

Rowan shrugged. ‘Can’t make it too easy for the colonisers, can you? And Abbasi’s a good surname for an actor – so many casting lists are arranged in alphabetical order.’ Nick laughed, and Rowan shook his head, a hint of a self-aware smile playing around his lips. ‘You have no idea how much cold calculation goes into showbiz, mate…’

Ilsa and Nick left first, the older woman whispering something into Robin’s ear which had her giggling and exhorting the pair _‘out then, out, good luck!’_ Strike was surprised when Rowan bowed out not much later, pleading an early breakfast engagement with a director friend. Somehow, the image in his mind of a professional actor had contained more…

‘Debauchery?’ suggested Vanessa, smirking. ‘Need to take things more seriously than that if you want to make it in the West End! You heard him about cold calculation, I’m sure that when he _does_ dabble in excess, it’s for the purposes of schmoozing with industry heavyweights.’

Robin opened her mouth with an air of indignation that Strike found quite touching, ready to leap to her new flatmate’s defence; then he watched as she considered Vanessa’s words, and realised that from the highly pragmatic police officer, they had probably been meant as praise. Vanessa yawned. ‘I might head home soon myself, I’ve a date in the morning too. Wouldn’t mind the loo first though – Robin, you do realise that you never gave us a tour of the flat? Which of those two doors is the bathroom?’

Robin, flushing slightly – from the wine or embarrassment at being thought a neglectful host? – scrambled to her feet. As she moved, Strike realised for the first time that her legs, crossed at the ankles, had been resting lightly against his prosthetic foot. Had she been aware of that? Had he shifted up against her without noticing, and she’d been too polite to bring his attention to it by moving away? She made so many small, wordless, daily allowances for his disability…

‘Oh, sorry! It’s the second one, the first is a little study, barely bigger than a closet but quite sweet really – I’ll show you if you like, give you a belated tour?’

Standing up, Robin was keenly aware of how her new home had shifted into soft focus since she’d settled into the leather armchair. Ilsa, who hadn’t been drinking, had slyly topped up her wine glass whenever it emptied, and even after her fizzing hostly stress had dissipated, Robin had welcomed the added confidence the alcohol had provided. She felt comfortable with these people she’d known barely more than a year, more so than with any of the old crowd of “friends” Matthew and she had kept since university, but there had still been something keeping her nerves humming. Perhaps it was the novelty of being at a purely social event with her boss-turned-partner, neither of them accompanied by a significant other… She felt keenly the lack of proscribed boundaries that came with their working relationship; even in the pub after a day’s work, they had a rhythm together which didn’t apply in others’ company. In the Tottenham, it was perfectly acceptable to maintain eye contact with Strike throughout a conversation, or to slip into their easy banter and in-jokes, but with friends, especially Strike’s old school friends… Well, what was appropriate, and what wasn’t?

Distracted by these thoughts jangling through her mind, she realised that she was babbling about the flat’s layout. ‘It’s quite convenient, the study and bathroom being on the other side of the kitchen to the bedrooms, because I can use it for typing up reports, and Rowan for rehearsing lines, without disturbing the other person if they’re sleeping odd hours, and same goes for the noise of the shower and toilet. Oh, erm, speaking of which – here you go, Vanessa.’ The other woman slipped past her into the bathroom, throwing her a knowing smile which only served to disconcert Robin further. Then she found herself standing outside the closed bathroom door with Strike, who had drifted along in the women’s wake for the “belated tour”.

For a long moment, the silence stretched between them, and then Strike moved to the study door. ‘Mind if I - ?’

‘Not at all! Look, I know I said I share it with Rowan, but I always pack away all my work things into this locked filing cabinet, of course I don’t leave anything out. And anyway, you know how I’m trying to digitise everything these days, there’s not much paperwork for him to see…’ She followed him into the tiny room.

‘Calm down Ellacott, I wasn’t trying to suggest that you were breaching our confidentiality policies.’ The smile he threw back at her, gently teasing, gave her the confidence to reach for that rhythm they’d perfected in the Tottenham.

‘That’s only because I haven’t finished writing those policies yet!’ His rough laugh seemed to fill the whole room, and hung in the air between them. He turned, suddenly, and bent down to check the lock on the filing cabinet. ‘Well? Does it meet with your approval?’

Strike admitted that it did, and Robin felt it was time to back out of the room. Vanessa still wasn’t finished in the bathroom. ‘Er, there’s not much more to the flat, really. You saw Rowan disappear into his bedroom – it’s the master one, with an ensuite – and mine is on the other side of the kitchen, here.’ She found herself opening the door to her room, praying that she’d left it neat and tidy, as Strike’s flat always was on the rare occasions she had reason to enter it. It was, but as soon as her partner stepped through the threshold, she felt an acute sense of embarrassment pierce the wine fug.

She hadn’t had a bedroom to herself since she was a teenager, and in the absence of Matthew and his disdain for anything “girly”, she’d finally felt safe to indulge in a few feminine touches. The curtains were a gauzy amber, the dresser (courtesy of Rowan) was one of the old-fashioned theatrical types with light bulbs around the mirror frame, and the bedhead was festooned with fairy lights which glowed from within paper lanterns. The effect of the room, which Robin had until now found warm and comforting, suddenly seemed horribly soft and silly in comparison to Strike’s military-style spartan rooms.

But when Cormoran turned to her, she thought she saw something like wistfulness flit across his face. ‘This is… nice,’ he muttered, not meeting her eyes. ‘You’ve got, ah, loads of space. Is the furniture yours?’

‘No, most of it’s Rowan’s or his ex’s – I bought him out of a lot of the stuff. Except the bed, obviously, which I actually found on Gumtree – second-hand, but it’s really sturdy, and I treated myself to a new mattress, which is unbelievably comfortable…’ She found herself walking over to the bed and patting it, as if to demonstrate. The absurdity of this caught up with her and she blinked slowly once, twice. ‘Cormoran, I think I’m going to be a bit hungover in the morning.’

His low chuckle tugged a smile to her lips as well. He crossed to the other side of the bed and bent down to pat it too. ‘Yep, definitely meets my standards of mattress comfort – but you know me, I could sleep on anything.’

A cough from the doorway made Robin start. ‘Well, I’m going to head off then – shall I leave you two to your mattress inspection?’ Vanessa’s eyes twinkled wickedly as she watched the blush spread over her friend’s face and neck.

Strike lurched out of Robin’s room at a pace that almost seemed natural. ‘Mind if I walk you to the station? I’ll exchange a smoke for any dirt you may have on Wardle, never know when I’ll next need leverage…’

Robin saw them to the door of the flat, rattling through her farewells on autopilot. As Strike drew on his coat, Vanessa pulled her in for a close embrace (and a whispered, ‘Cocktails, Tuesday night after work? We need to talk!’), and let herself through the front door. Strike hesitated fractionally before pulling her into an awkward one-armed hug, his cheek grazing hers. ‘Cheers for the dinner, it's been a great night. I’ll see you Monday, yeah?’

‘Of course,’ she agreed, and didn’t see him wince at himself as he turned away and left with Vanessa. Robin, suddenly exhausted, threw the dirty dishes into the dishwasher, and barely managed to remove her slacks and light blouse before falling into bed.  

Hours later, her phone’s ping dragged her to the surface of consciousness, where she floated just long enough to see one word through sleep-clogged eyes. **Help** **,** she read… Her sleepy brain decided she must be dreaming still, and she slipped back into slumber as the sun’s rays crept through her amber curtains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Lindmea for being my sounding board for this piece, and for welcoming me into the fandom community with so much warmth and friendliness. Cheers also to LuluIsAKitten, whose First Kiss stories provided inspiration for this - I had originally intended for "onion tears" to be a prompt for her, but then it took root in my own brain instead, and here we are!
> 
> This first chapter is mainly just me stretching my fanfic legs after 8 years of inactivity, and trying to get into the characters' heads. Actual plot will start soon enough, if the bunnies are kind to me...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone close to Rowan has disappeared; he calls on Robin and Strike for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't believe that after almost a month of staring at a blank word file, it all came together and I bashed this chapter out over two nights!
> 
> NB: The text Robin receives at the end of Chapter 1 originally featured the word "blackmail", but my crime plot has had a drastic overhaul so it now simply reads "help".

_If I do vow a friendship, I'll perform it_  
_To the last article_

**\- Desdemona, _Othello,_ Act 3, Scene 3**

 

Strike woke, to his surprise, to something of a headache. He grimaced, trying to count back over the number of beers he'd worked through at Robin's housewarming. The thought occurred to him that whatever his situation, it was likely that his partner's was worse - the memory of her patting her bed and espousing its sturdiness made him smile, despite the throbbing behind his eyes. He reached for his phone unthinkingly, wanting to text her asking how her hangover was shaping up, but thought better of it before his grasping fingers located the mobile. No need to bother her unnecessarily on a Sunday, or to make her think he couldn't go twelve hours without speaking to her. The boundaries between their personal and professional lives had become more blurred while she had been living with his closest friends, but perhaps she would want to re-establish them now that she was, for the first time, living as a single, independent, adult woman. He'd wait to contact her until he had something work-related to relate.

As he rolled over to face away from his phone, it gave its two-tone chime and accompanying buzz to signify a text. He sighed and reached for it again, hoping that it wouldn't be a certain Sara, cousin of a friend, who’d begun texting him almost daily, despite the fact that he’d stopped replying as soon as he realised there was a flirtatious note to her banter. However, when he picked the mobile up, the name blinking up at him precipitated a pleasant lurch in his stomach: **ROBIN**.

Grinning, and already thinking of what teasing question to ask about the state of her head, he swiped the message open. Reading it, his smile was slowly replaced by a puzzled frown, and fifteen minutes later he was clattering down the stairs on his way back to Earl's Court, stopping only to purchase some Berocca and a bottle of water.

 

Robin glanced at the text from Strike again, but it still only contained the same three words: **on my way.**

'Rowan,' she suggested in what she hoped was a soothing manner, 'Can I get you some tea? Or won't you at least take a seat? From what you've told me, you've not had much sleep since last night, and we'll need you to keep it together so that we can brief Strike accurately when he gets here.' And hopefully in a more coherent manner than how I heard it all, she added privately. In the week they'd lived together, she'd never seen her flatmate in anything other than laconic, cool-headed good humour; this distracted pacing, and the hunted look in his dark eyes, was worrying her even more than the fragments of story that he'd spilled out to her when she'd finally woken up and read his panicked text.

Reluctantly, his mind clearly elsewhere, he accepted her offer of tea and sat down on the leather sofa. When she looked over a couple of minutes later, as she waited for the teabags to steep, she was surprised to see him sitting on the sofa cross-legged, hands resting on his knees, face smooth and meditative. Religious practice or drama school exercise? Regardless, it seemed to calm him down, and when the harsh tone of the buzzer broke his concentration, he opened eyes which seemed much steadier.

Her flatmate’s state was briefly driven from Robin’s mind when she opened the door to admit Strike. He looked even more haggard than usual, and she noted that in his haste he’d simply thrown on jeans and a t-shirt beneath his coat. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him in anything but a button-down shirt; it made her realise, suddenly, how odd it was for him to be in her flat at this time on a Sunday morning. A cylindrical bulge in his jeans made her lips twitch, but she refrained from commenting. After all, she wasn’t exactly in a position to judge.

‘Thank you for coming,’ she murmured as she let him in, ‘He was in a bit of a state earlier, but I think he’s got himself under control now.’

Rowan was still sat cross-legged on the sofa as Strike strode into the living room. The young actor hitched a smile onto a face that was still too pale, and tried for a joke. ‘Is that a tube of Berocca in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?’

Strike snorted. ‘Well considering you can see the tip poking out, and it’s green, I would certainly hope it’s the former.’ He fished the hangover cure from his pocket – blimey, these new jeans had not stretched in the wash as the salesperson had promised – and tossed it to Rowan. He looked like he needed it.

Strike settled himself into the leather armchair Robin had occupied the previous night, and tried not to read too much into the fact that Robin dragged a dining chair across from the living room rather than sit on the end of the sofa nearest him. She was probably just trying to give Rowan space. It probably had nothing to do with the way their feet had ended up resting against each other last night.

‘So, Rowan… What’s this about someone you know being abducted?’

Rowan drew a deep breath. ‘A… friend of mine has disappeared. I was supposed to meet him, ah, this morning, but when I got to his house, there was no sign of him – and his front door was unlocked. He’s received threatening emails lately, Tweets too, and I’m worried that…’ His voice trailed off, forlorn.

Strike willed himself not to sigh. Actors, in his experience, were never easy people to interrogate, and they hated to give information away concisely or without prompting. It always had to be a performance, dramatic as possible. As much as he liked Rowan, he feared that this interview would be no exception. He could feel the hidden facts of this story circling below Rowan’s summary, like sharks only barely hidden by the water’s surface.

‘All right, let’s start with who this friend is. Didn’t you say last night that you had plans to meet a director friend? Or were they a producer?’

‘Director, and yes, but… I cancelled, to meet someone else. Another actor.’ Rowan licked his lips, cleared his throat slightly. ‘After I said good night to you all last night, I got a message from someone I haven’t seen in a few weeks. He’s been in LA again, in talks over… well, it’s not important exactly what. But he messaged me saying he was back in London, and inviting me round. So I waited until everyone had left, and then I headed out to his house. I took the night bus.’

Strike threw a glance at Robin; her eyebrows had raised slightly to hear how her flatmate had snuck out like a wayward teenager for a post-midnight tryst.

‘Rowan,’ she interjected, voice neutral, ‘Who is this friend? I don’t think I’ve heard you mention him.’

There was a moment of silence. Rowan sat on the sofa, every line of his body tense, face impossible to read while he considered his response. Then he sighed, deflated, and seemed to decide to tell the truth – or part of it, at least. ‘No, I haven’t mentioned him. We’ve been seeing each other for a few months now, whenever he’s in town. But it’s been… secret. That’s why I haven’t gone to the police. I can’t tell them why I was at his house at 2am, not without everything coming out.’

 _Coming out._ Strike nodded, as the picture began to coalesce. ‘So he’s closeted. And must be a pretty successful actor, to fly between London and LA for work. Worried that if he’s outed, he might not work again?’

‘But surely that’s not the case anymore,’ Robin broke in, eyes wide, ‘Loads of actors are out and proud these days! Sir Ian McKellan, Neil Patrick Harris, Ben Whishaw, Stephen Fry…’ She reached for another example and failed to find one.

Rowan’s smile was brittle. ‘Sure, you can try being an out gay screen actor if you’re white and only interested in certain roles… But can you name any black gay action stars?’

A pause, while Strike and Robin checked they couldn’t. Robin grimaced. ‘Is that why he was being threatened? Someone found out he was gay?’

‘No – actually, it was because he’s black, and he’s recently been cast as… someone controversial.’

Robin and Strike exchanged blank looks, and he was still looking at her when her face changed as if thunderstruck. Her eyes widened again, and it flitted through Strike’s mind that you could spend a lifetime cataloguing all the emotions those eyes could express. She gasped lightly, then clapped her hand to her mouth. She turned her gaze to Rowan in mute appeal. He sighed. ‘Well, Nancy Drew’s figured it out. I suppose I was always going to have to tell you. But, _please,_ ’ He clasped his hands in front of him, ‘You can’t tell _anyone_ about us.’

‘We’d be pretty poor PIs if we didn’t respect client confidentiality. Of course we won’t tell anyone. Who is it?’

Rowan nodded at Robin, and she wondered if he was testing her, to see if she’d come to the right conclusion. ‘Well, it’s not really my genre, but a friend of Matthew’s mentioned it back when it was leaked to the press, about a month ago – sparked a bit of an argument when we were all at out dinner, actually… Tom said that it wouldn’t feel right to have a black Bond. I told him that I thought Rhys Ofori would be fantastic.’

Before he could stop himself, Strike asked, ‘And what did Matthew think?’

The skin around Robin’s mouth tightened. ‘He said he didn’t have anything against a black Bond in theory, but that actors should be cast according to their merits, not skin colour, so he hoped no better candidates had been passed over for the sake of political correctness.’

This time it was Rowan and Strike who swapped a glance, wordlessly agreeing that they’d expected no better from Robin’s ex.

 _Rhys Ofori…_ Strike was not exactly up to date with the current state of Hollywood, but even he had heard that name. ‘Hang on, isn’t that the bloke who played the SAS soldier in that film about Kosovo?’

Rowan nodded, the ghost of a proud smile flickering over his face. ‘Lead role, yeah. Nominated for a BAFTA, too. He was proper brilliant in that.’

 _Even if the film was completely inaccurate._ ‘So he was getting harassed online for that casting. Who by?’

The younger man shrugged. ‘The usual. Angry fanboys, white supremacists, faceless burner accounts. He just deactivated his Twitter and stopped opening fanmail that hadn’t been vetted by his agent. He wasn’t too bothered by it, but I couldn’t stop myself looking at what some of the bastards were saying online, and…’ He swallowed hard. ‘It was pretty fucked up.’

Robin reached over to squeeze her flatmate’s hand in sympathy. Strike decided it was time to turn to more recent events. ‘So you arrived at his place around 2? Where does he live?’

‘Hackney – it’s where he grew up, his mum and dad still live there. He has a terrace house right around the corner from them. I didn’t even knock – the door was slightly ajar, and unlocked. All the lights inside were on, and John Legend was playing in the living room. But he just… wasn’t there. I thought at first that he must’ve just popped out to the off-licence for more wine or something and forgotten to lock the door, so…’

‘So?’ prompted Strike, as Rowan’s voice trailed off.

‘It’s just embarrassing…’ Rowan seemed to be avoiding Strike’s eyes. Robin decided this was her cue to step in.

‘Cormoran, could you please put the kettle on to boil? I think we could all use another cup of tea.’

He did so, obedient, and from the kitchen space he could see Robin move to the sofa beside the younger man. The noise of the boiling kettle drowned out their whispered conversation, but he couldn’t help but feel a stab of envy as he watched the two of them from the corner of his eye, heads bent together like siblings sharing secrets kept from their ornery older brother. He was rarely as keenly aware of the age gap between himself and his partner as when he saw her in the company of others her age.

The kettle boiled, he took three fresh mugs of tea over to the living space, in time to see Robin and Rowan lean apart from one another. He looked flushed, and she was trying to hide a smirk – her poker face was excellent, but Strike knew her well enough to see the telltale signs.

‘Well the details aren’t important, Cormoran, but basically Rowan drifted off on the sofa while waiting for Rhys to come back – so he thought – and didn’t wake up until the sun rose. That’s when he realised something must’ve been wrong, and texted me.’

‘Right.’ He set the mugs down on the coffee table. ‘And did you have a look around the house before you left? Notice anything weird at all?’

Rowan shrugged. ‘Nothing particularly out of place – no sign of a struggle, that’s what you detectives say, right? – but his phone was still on the kitchen counter, and his keys and wallet were on the dresser in his bedroom. No way he’d have left the house without all those things, he’s just not absent-minded like that.’

‘Did you happen to see if there were any unread messages on his phone lock screen?’ That was Robin, brow slightly furrowed as she tried to envision the scene.

‘Ah, actually…’ Rowan reached into his pocket and drew out a sleek new iPhone 5. Robin sucked in a deep breath as Strike cursed under his breath; if something untoward _had_ happened to Rhys, Rowan having taken his phone from a potential crime scene wouldn’t look good.

‘Why did you do that, Rowan?’

‘He never opened the last Snapchat I sent him. I didn’t – look, I sorta just panicked, and didn’t want the police to see that picture if, if – ’

‘But you didn’t turn it off – so it’s still been feeding its location back to the network. They could trace it right to this building, Rowan.’ Ignoring the stricken look on the younger man’s face, Strike continued, ‘And what’s “Snapchat”?’

Robin stepped in. ‘It’s a new social media app; you can send a photo to your friend, and it expires – vanishes – within seconds of them viewing it. It mainly gets used for, um… silly snaps, as well as any type of footage that you wouldn’t want floating about on someone’s device.’ She raised her eyebrows at Strike, whose lips quirked upwards in recognition of her meaning.

Robin jumped to her feet and disappeared into her bedroom briefly. When she reappeared, she was wearing light black gloves. She returned to the sofa and turned to Rowan, holding a hand out for the phone. ‘May I?’ He passed it over. Strike nodded to himself in approval, realising that she was trying to avoid adding too many more fingerprints to the device.

Robin hit the home button, waking the phone’s lock screen. Sure enough, a little yellow ghost announced a new arrival from **rowan.your.boat** among others, and the screen was starting to fill up with other notifications – emails, iMessages, and already five missed calls, including one from Rowan (‘I called his phone when I woke up, and that’s when I heard it ringing from inside the kitchen’). Robin pulled out her own phone and began taking photos of Rhys’ notification screen, asking him about the names displayed there.

‘Um, Gregg will be his agent Gregg Newman, Jamison Beck is a co-star in the production of _Othello_ he’s doing, RhiRhi is –’

‘Not Rihanna?’ Robin blurted out before she could stop herself.

‘No, that’ll be his sister Rhiannon. But that iMessage from “Blunty” is from Emily Blunt – they’re mates.’ Mouth popping open, Robin couldn’t resist scrolling back down to read the notification: **lol you poor thing! so glad Tom's not like that...**

Strike, meanwhile, was turning over the facts – such as they were – in his mind. ‘Rowan, there’s not really much to go on here. There could be a perfectly innocent reason as to his disappearance, but the unlocked door and abandoned phone and keys are concerning, particularly in combination with his profile and those recent threats.’

Rowan rubbed his temples. ‘What do you think we – I – should do?’

‘We’ll help as much as we can, Rowan,’ Robin responded at once, ‘I will, anyway – what’s the point of being a PI if you can’t help your flatmate in a situation like this? ’

‘But if we haven’t turned anything up by tonight, we should go to the police.’ Strike raised a hand, anticipating Rowan’s protests. ‘They’re going to find out that you were at his house this morning one way or another, and it’ll look worse if you try to hide it. And he’s a celebrity – they don’t tend to be missing for very long before people start to notice.’

‘He’s supposed to be at the Palladium all day today, like yesterday,’ Rowan acknowledged miserably. ‘ _Othello_ opens in just over a week.’

It was agreed that Rowan would take Robin to the house in Hackney, to check for anything he’d missed in his panic earlier that morning. Strike would meet them there – a quick call to Barclay had confirmed that the Scot was happy to take over the surveillance work Strike had intended to do that evening, but he needed Strike to drop round the disguised camera they had rigged up for the job.

 

Half an hour later, Strike was knocking on Barclay’s door. ‘Mornin’ boss,’ the ex-Rifleman greeted him, a smidge too cheerily in Strike’s opinion.

‘Morning. Thanks for taking this over on short notice.’

‘Didnae have any plans. Wife’s home this evenin’, she’ll watch the bairn. You want a cuppa before you go?’

‘Cheers, but I should push on.’ As he passed the camera over and turned to go, Strike suddenly realised that he had drunk three cups of tea and a bottle of water this morning. ‘Actually Barclay, could I use your loo?’

‘Nae problem, pal – piss away, then piss off,’ his employee responded with a grin.

Having exited the bathroom a minute later, Strike stepped into the living room to farewell Barclay, who was seated on the carpet playing with his baby.

‘Cheers again, mate, ring me when you’re finished tonight to…’ Strike’s sentence trailed off, eyes fixed on the screen of the television in the corner of the room. ‘Barclay, will you unmute that?’

 

Robin and Rowan were exiting the Costa by Hackney Central Station, ersatz breakfast sandwiches in hand, when Robin’s phone rang.

‘Cormoran, hi – we just got off the Overground, heading to Rhys’ place now…’

‘No need,’ Strike replied, voice dark, ‘I just saw on the news – he's been found.’


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin and Strike have a tense conversation, and then meet a new client.

_Had I as many mouths as Hydra,  
such an answer would stop them all._

**_-_ Cassio;  _Othello,_ Act 2, Scene 3**

 

The air in the office on Monday evening was heavy with unspoken words. After a day spent tailing separate targets, the two of them had come back to Denmark Street and were sharing the front desk, as had become their habit – Robin typing up case notes on her computer, Strike scrawling a list of suspects in a fraud case they were investigating. Strike was very conscious, bent though he was over his paper, that Robin’s typing was more staccato and halting than usual, and he could feel her throwing brooding looks in his direction. Finally, when her keyboard had been silent for almost a full minute, and he couldn’t stand the charged silence any longer, he threw his pen down.

‘Look, just – ’

‘Cormoran – ’

Both stopped; Strike motioned for her to continue. ‘It just doesn’t feel right. I think there’s more to it than what the tabloids are running.’

Strike’s phone buzzed. He looked down, saw who was calling, and ignored it. ‘Robin, a young celebrity flaked on his lover and went out partying instead, accepted too many party favours, wound up overdosed in a Soho gutter caked in his own vomit. It happens all the bloody time. He's just lucky that it didn't kill him.’

She shook her head, stubborn. ‘Rowan’s a good judge of character, Cormoran. He takes his job seriously, and he wouldn’t date someone who didn’t. You heard him, Rhys was due to be rehearsing at the Palladium all day yesterday. And, look!’ She swivelled the computer monitor to show her partner the old news article she’d loaded up on it. Strike barely skimmed the headline, **RHYS OFORI STARTS FOUNDATION TO COMBAT DRUG USAGE AMONG LONDON’S BLACK YOUTH,** before waving a dismissive hand.

‘Celebs put their names and faces on all sorts of causes if they think it’ll give them good publicity. Doesn’t mean anything about his own recreational choices.’

‘But it says here that his cousin died of a heroin overdose when he was a kid. Surely that would have an impact?’

He rubbed his tired eyes with the palms of his hands. ‘Well, finding my mother on that mattress certainly didn’t stop Shanker from experimenting with anything he could when he was in his teens.’

Robin realised she’d veered a little too close to Strike’s personal history, and changed tactic. ‘So you think he just went out partying without his phone, or wallet, or keys? Without telling Rowan to come and join him? Without turning out his house lights, or music?’

‘Look, Robin, I dunno what happened. I haven’t met the guy and neither have you. We haven’t been hired to look into the case at all – if there even is a case. We were helping out your flatmate locate his lost boyfriend, as his mates, and his boyfriend is no longer lost. We know exactly where he is - in a stable condition in hospital. That’s all there is to it.’ They both ignored his phone as it began to vibrate again.

‘I thought you liked Rowan?’

‘Of course I like Rowan! And I know this whole incident must be hard on him, Christ, obviously. But sometimes good people, nice people, even attractive and famous people – _especially_ them – make mistakes. You can’t always fix everything for people, Robin.’

Stung, Robin sat back, searching for a retort. The grating buzz of Strike’s phone gave her a convenient excuse to go on the offensive. ‘Are you going to answer that?’ she snapped, glaring at the screen as it urgently blinked **SARA**.

Her partner groaned, running one hand distractedly through his wiry hair. ‘The plan was to just let her calls ring out, but she’s proving bloody persistent. I’m afraid I might’ve given her the impression I was free this evening…’ At Robin’s hard, questioning look, he continued, ‘Dave Polworth’s cousin, Sara. Had a crush on me as a kid, and I saw her at his birthday party last week – Dave convinced her that since I’m single now, she should “go for it”, and he gave her my number. Git. But I can’t just block her, she’s a Polworth…’

Only partly placated by this explanation, and irrationally stung that she hadn’t been invited to this birthday party for a man she’d only heard of but never met, Robin let out a light sigh before turning back to her computer. Clicking closed the news article, with its photo of the suavely handsome Ofori, her thoughts returned to her flatmate. ‘It’s just so hard on Rowan. He can’t even go and see Rhys – he’s not family, or his agent, or officially anything more than just a friend.’

The mobile rang a fourth time.

She was tired and cross, she’d reason later, or she’d never have done it; if she’d just had more sleep the night before, or if the girl’s name hadn’t been so close to “Sarah”… But Robin felt the irritation inside her reach boiling point, and almost against her will she saw her own hand reaching out to take Strike’s phone. ‘ _This_ is how you make sure a woman knows not to pursue you any further,’ she growled, and swiped to accept the call. Her voice suddenly turned sickly sweet. ‘Hello, this is Cormy-Warmy’s phone!’ Halfway through her manufactured giggle, she heard the hang-up tone sound. _Bet Sara won’t be calling back again any time soon,_ she thought with vindictive satisfaction. Then she froze, struck by what she had just given away. Had Strike come to the same conclusion? She glanced at his face and was horrified to see a dawning realisation there.

‘Robin, last year, did you – ?’

Thankfully, it was at just this moment that Robin’s own phone began to ring, and she snatched it up before her partner could find a way to frame his question. ‘Rowan! Is everything okay?’

She stood up, making her way into the inner office for some privacy. She and Rowan had stayed up late into the previous night, with Robin putting her psychology studies into use as she played therapist. She had learnt that Rowan’s relationship with Ofori had, though short, meant far more to him than the no-strings fun that she and Strike had somehow assumed, and that the paparazzi’s’ photos of him in the gutter had shaken him to his core. Returning again and again to the events of that Saturday night – what they knew had happened, what was still a mystery, and how different things may have been had he set out to his lover’s house a little earlier – had sent the young actor into a spiral of horror and self-recrimination.

Strike watched his partner close the door to what he still thought of as his office before letting out a lungful of stunned air. It had taken him a moment to place that line – “ _this is Cormy-Warmy”_ – but Robin’s imitation skills were generally spot-on, and that final giggle had transported him right back to the night in the Travelodge with Coco. His phone had rung just as he was shrugging his t-shirt off over his head; he’d struggled a bit to coordinate his beer-numbed fingers as he did so, and by the time he emerged Coco had snatched up his phone and hit the green answer key. The line had gone dead before he’d managed to wrest it back from her; all he’d seen was an unknown overseas number. He had briefly concluded that it must have been a scammer, before returning his attention to the petite woman with her bright red hair and complete lack of clothing.

A groan escaped his lips at the thought that, had he thought later to check the provenance of the caller’s number, it might have been the Maldives.

What night would that have been? When did he go out for dinner with Wardle, his wife, and her friend? It must have been about a week after the wedding… Was that before or after Matthew came down with his infection? Had she already decided by that point to stay with him, or had she ripped up the divorce papers after hearing Coco’s girlish voice answer Strike’s phone?

_Was it too late to tell her he’d only taken Coco to bed as a distraction from torturing himself about his true feelings for Robin Ellacott?_

When Robin emerged from the inner office a few minutes later, his thoughts were still in turmoil. In an attempt to disguise his confusion, he’d gathered up their empty tea mugs and was industriously washing them in the kitchenette. He heard her footsteps moving towards him, and he set the dishcloth down, wiping soapy hands on his trousers. However to his consternation, he realised she was bound not for him and an overdue confrontation, but for her light autumn jacket.

‘That was Rowan. Rhys is feeling well enough to have visitors, and he wants to talk to us about what happened yesterday.’ A flush was creeping over her cheeks and down her neck, but her jaw was set in stubborn defiance as she shrugged into her jacket. ‘I know you don’t think there’s anything to it, but I’m going to go and see what he has to say. If I decide to take the case, I’m happy to be the lead or even sole investigator, and I won’t let it get in the way of my pre-existing cases.’

Strike raised his eyebrows at this little speech. ‘Hold on Robin, if we have a prospective client who’s willing and able to hire us officially, that’s a different kettle of fish. Are you rushing off to the hospital right now?’

‘He’s just up the road, at UCLH. His ward has visiting hours until 9pm – if I hurry, I should be able to get a few minutes with him. Rowan’s already on his way.’ She hesitated, and despite her talk of hurry seemed to be making slow work of tying her scarf, eyes on the ground. The silence stretched for a moment, until Strike decided to take a stab in the dark at whatever it was she was too proud to say.

‘Mind if I tag along?’

Her smile was like the sun coming out, and for a moment Strike forgot about Sara Polworth, Coco, and even Rowan and Rhys.

 

It was a surreal experience, Robin thought, standing by the bedside of a famous actor in a blandly functional NHS hospital ward. His handsome face, with its high cheekbones and chiselled jawline, looked much more human than when it stared from the cover of a magazine – probably due to the lack of airbrushing and styling.

Or, she acknowledged, it could be because he had certainly never been to a photoshoot in a state like this. His eyes were bloodshot and beneath them heavy shadows were thrown into harsh relief by the ward’s stark lighting, but Robin couldn’t help but notice how his face lit up when they – or rather, Rowan – entered the room. As soon as the nurse had satisfied herself that the visitors were expected and welcome, she departed. Rowan, after only a beat of hesitation, moved to Rhys’ side and took his hand, bending down to murmur something in his ear. The two investigators hung back, not wanting to intrude, and Robin smiled to notice Strike positioning his bulk squarely in the doorframe to block the couple from the view of any curious passersby. Whether by luck or an effort from the hospital staff to avoid their celebrity patient being badgered by a roommate, the other bed in the tiny room was vacant.

‘Rhys, these are the two I told you about – Robin Ellacott, my new flatmate, and her partner Cormoran Strike.’ Rowan waved them over, and motioned that they should shut the door as they came in.

‘Thank you for coming,’ Rhys began. His voice was deep and, Robin couldn’t help but think, very sexy. It held a note of hoarseness which had been absent in the YouTube interviews she’d watched the previous day, and even though she knew the unfortunate circumstances which had caused it, she felt this huskiness only added to his allure. ‘I know it’s late, and I’m sorry to be in such a pathetic state. But when Rowan mentioned on the phone that he just so happened to know two private investigators – ’

‘I thought I should tell him that I’d told you guys about, well, everything,’ Rowan confessed.

‘ – Yeah, well I thought, actually, you’re exactly the people I need right now. I want to hire you to investigate it all for me.’

A pause, while Rhys hacked up a crackling cough. Robin, conscious of her promise to take the lead on this case, prompted him once the bout had subsided: ‘Rowan mentioned that there were a couple of things about... the incident on the weekend that didn’t add up?’

He nodded, a wry smile twisting his lips. ‘That’s putting it gently. This whole thing is totally mental – waking up in hospital, being told I was in for a bad reaction to narcotics – I mean, I’m clean, always have been! Don’t even smoke cigarettes, don’t wanna ruin my voice. I like a glass or two of rosé of an evening, but that’s about it. I would never mess around with any drugs, let alone opiates.’

Robin shot a glance at Strike. He lifted his shoulders lightly in a shrug. ‘Why don’t you take us through what you remember of the weekend,’ he suggested.

‘I got in at Heathrow early Saturday morning – coming from LAX. Had time to go home for a shower and change, then straight into the Palladium for tech runs of _Othello,_ which opens next week.’

Rowan caught the blank expressions from the non-actors. ‘Tech runs are, like, the step before dress rehearsals – you check all the sound and lighting cues and set changes and stuff are working how they should be. Usually an actor of Rhys’ calibre,’ He shot his boyfriend a playful smile, ‘wouldn’t bother going to techs, he’d get someone to stand in for him.’

‘If I’m doing theatre, I want to do it properly,’ Rhys protested. ‘It’s been years since I did anything but screen work, I wanted to show them that I haven’t forgotten my stage roots, I’m not too full of myself.’ A weak flap of his hand indicated “them” to be the general populace of the theatre world. ‘Anyway, it went on forever, we were having problems with sound. It’s always sound,’ he muttered darkly.

‘What time did you leave the theatre?’

‘About ten. I think the sound ops might’ve stayed later, but they sent us actors home around ten that night. I got a cab straight back to my place in Hackney.’

‘You must’ve been tired. Do you get bad jet lag?’ Robin thought back to when she’d visited a cousin in Ontario as a teenager. She’d been useless for days afterwards.

‘I used to, but I’m getting the hang of it these days – I find I’ve just gotta battle through it, y’know. But yeah, by the time I got home I was pretty knackered. Even my coffee hadn’t done much to keep me awake. All I wanted was for Rowan to get his arse to my place so we could talk about LA and crawl into bed.’

Only looking slightly abashed, Rowan explained, ‘It’s the first time he’s been away that long since we started dating. And the LA stuff was, well…’

‘About Bond,’ Strike suggested.

Rhys nodded. ‘Nothing’s confirmed yet, but it’s looking pretty good. Down to screen tests… I understand they’ve got another guy testing as well, but I shouldn’t say who.’ Robin saw a flicker of something cross Rowan’s face, and suspected that Rhys hadn’t been so tight-lipped with him.

‘So you got home, and…?’

Rhys spread his hands in the air before him where he lay in the hospital bed. ‘I dunno, it all starts to get a bit hazy. I know I messaged Rowan while I was in the cab, telling him to come round. I got home, went into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of rosé from the fridge. Took two glasses into the living room – one for me, one for Rowan, something to drink while I told him about Hollywood. I’m pretty sure I started mine while I waited. And I… I must’ve fallen asleep at the table? I dunno – I remember snapshots, like, but I can’t tell if they were real or dreams. I think I heard the doorbell at one point, and I got up to get it, thought that’ll be Rowan… but then it was the Queen… Then later I thought I was in a car, and someone was talking about dancing – I tried to tell them I didn’t like to tango, but they didn’t listen…’ He threw his hands up in frustration. ‘Then next thing I remember was being on the ground, outside, and it was like I was so heavy I couldn’t move, but at the same time I was… drifting? There were flashing lights – the ambulance, I guess – and someone talking to me, but they were really muffled. Everything was warm and soft.’ He shuddered. ‘The paramedics injected me with something – I think the doctors said later it was naloxone. That cleared me up a bit. I started to come round properly, and realised I was lying in a gutter in Soho, covered in my own puke. And there were people there with their phones out, taking pictures.’

Rowan muttered a curse. ‘Yeah, they went viral on social media pretty quickly. Some of the bastards stuck around and talked to the press afterwards, too. Scumbags.’

‘What did they say when they got you to the hospital?’ Robin had her notepad out and was scribbling notes.

‘They had to run me through a bunch of tests. I was still pretty weak and groggy, they said they needed to check I didn’t have a head injury, or low blood glucose, or a bunch of other stuff. Apparently when the paramedics found me, my pupils were the size of pin-pricks, which is how they knew that I needed an anti-narcotic. The initial blood screens confirmed that. Anyway, then they heard this crackle in my chest, so I had to get some x-rays done… Looks like I, um, breathed in some of my vomit while I was out, so now I’m stuck in here on intravenous antibiotics until they say I’m fit to go.’

‘You haven’t yet heard back from toxicology about exactly what was in your blood?’ Strike hoped that this might have been one of those happy times when the turnaround was fast.

‘Not yet. Honestly, I’m freaking out. They say that there were needles and shit next to me in the street where they found me – I don’t know the first thing about shooting up, I’ve never done it. I know it sounds crazy, but I think someone abducted me and then set me up to look like a junkie.’

There was a knock on the door, and a nurse poked his head in. ‘Visiting times are over, I’m going to have to ask you to wrap up now,’ he informed them, and withdrew.

‘You’re going to take the case, right? Robin?’

Robin looked at Rowan’s wide eyes, and Rhys’ tense face. ‘Of course,’ she assured them, then glanced at Strike. He nodded, motioning for her to continue. ‘We’ll need to come back tomorrow to get more details from you, and to talk about our fees and paperwork. We’ll start by retracing your footsteps since coming back to England – could you arrange for us to get into the Palladium and talk to the people there?’

‘Probably,’ he agreed. ‘And you can go to my house, Rowan’ll take you. In fact…’ He raised his eyebrows at his boyfriend, who gave a sheepish smile, and withdrew from his pocket Rhys’ phone and house keys.

‘Sorry about taking those, babe,’ he muttered, ‘I panicked.’

‘Hey, better you than some random off the street.’

They were firmly chivvied out by the nurse some minutes later. Strike lit a cigarette as they left the hospital grounds (pointed signs proclaimed **We are a Smoke-Free Environment** ), and walked with Robin and Rowan to Warren Street tube station before parting ways with them. He was acutely aware, every step that they walked, that he had yet to talk to Robin about the day’s earlier revelation _(Cormy-Warmy),_ but he could hardly broach the subject with Rowan there as an awkward third party. It would have to wait.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as ever, to the wonderful lindmea for her enthusiasm and advice! Cheers also to my doctor parents for playing medical consultants, and my beloved boyfriend for giving me honest critique as well as insights into his workplace, the Palladium.
> 
> Apologies also go to my boyfriend, who walked into our bedroom just in time to hear me say on the phone, "No Dad, I don't want to kill him, I just need a drug that'll land him in hospital for a few days..." The look of pure horror on his face was quite hilarious, though, as was his relief when he realised I was talking about fiction!
> 
> Fun fact: I had originally intended to kill Rhys, but I got too attached to Rowan, and realised that I didn't want to be guilty of the "bury your gays" trope. So, he's still with us :)


End file.
